Who of Us is Stronger?

by Julisheart_toYaoi

Summary:

Douma and Enmu are two different demons in different phases of devotion. One is unfeeling, the other is a vermin to his rarity. So, the best to be done, is each other. Douma and Enmu don’t belong to each other.

They belong to Muzan. So why do they bed each other. Why do they keep seeing through another.

Won’t they be punished?

Does Douma want to lose his life, want to lose what he’s found in Enmu? In gluttony? These questions are better of unanswered while he holds a lowermoon in a position nobody should want to be in. But Enmu is different. Enmu is a dreamer.

Notes:

This is an over 15 thousand word one shot, a good chunk of it is character study and how the relationship between these two demons can and will affect the actual lore of KNY.

I think I did quite well with it, and am very proud of how it came out. This entire thing took me around 6 days and drafting it all over took a few hours today! But, still, these characters are very important to me.

And since I’m not being able to write Cut Me Clean, I decided to write this instead just to have something to do. Because my motivation is going down a long, long way.

It’s also been a while. I don’t write man on man as much as I write woman on woman. And that’s gonna have to change, knowing my plans for my fanfictions. That are all Lotus Dreams.

Whatever happens, I hope that this disturbing little one shot is loved by the people on this silly site.

 

Demons don’t have to worry about anything. Demons don’t have to care, they don’t have to question themselves, they don’t even have to worry about breathing if they don’t want to. Pain is shallow when you’re immortal. Pain doesn’t exist unless it’s solely brought upon oneself. Or, the rare occasion, it is desired. Sought out. Bringing pain and suffering as a demon is natural. Basking in it, bathing in the screams of a victim while they struggle to comprehend just what sort of paradise they’ve come across.

 

 

To see heaven, is to feel claws itching into skin. To feel fangs digging through meat. Piercing innocence and cleansing the soul with rich blood. Crimson staining beautiful white sheets and even more beautiful pale skin. Like plush clouds. Or a Lilly’s petals, rotting and sour with taste. Pick your poison, he says. Muzan-sama. His voice has a velvety softness that commands over every demon in their mind. Takes over their senses and makes them think, I want this. I need this. It’s everything I am not.

 

 

Enmu’s power resonates with these thoughts. Despite Muzan never infiltrating them, fearing the subconscious of a manipulator. One who’s so disgustingly devoted.

 

 

Enmu has never brought it upon himself to question. To infer. But he knows, deep down, in his bittersweet soul. He knows what he can do. He knows the power he holds and how badly he wants more of it.

 

 

Starvation for power. Craving blood like a drug. Enmu’s never heard of drugs, none he could use on himself. Perhaps his patients in another life. Over five decades ago. Enmu prefers the euphoria of hurting others and hurting himself. Enmu is cruel. Enmu is sweet, classy, but cruel. And hateful. Power hungry.

 

 

His loyalty to Muzan-sama speaks no bounds. His dreams showcase it. Desire for pain, desire to gain more and more until his veins burst. That’s Enmu’s character.

 

 

His discomfort can’t be shown if he doesn’t feel it. His giggles can be heard even if there’s nothing entertaining. Nothing can be so silly, nothing. His respect and his willingness. It’s a disgusting act. Something he’s been below and above in his immortal life. Hell, probably as a human too. If he can bother to remember the shallower details. The fact of fiction and reality. Pick a book to journal. Pick a side to make a living, malpractices. Art. Pick a poison to kill off in the silken and spongy bone marrow, or the teeth that tear out his lower intestine from his slight belly. To taste. To have a nibble.

He’s an inferior vermin to the upperranks. He was to Muzan, except saved and favored in a way he could only manipulate into receiving. Mercy. Their otherworldly abilities are not like his, their blood is rare and his is rotten. In a way he tastes when he bites his tongue to conceal his pride. His blush when another scolds him. The attention and approval slither right through his steaming guts and pool a little molten gold in his lower tummy. A taste of what he wants. Needs. An urge, that most demons would ignore. However sex is no curse as a demon. No limitations like a human’s. No dangers for kinks.

 

Demons can regenerate. Humans cannot.

 

Enmu can bring himself as much pain and pleasure as he wants. In dreams, in physical reality furthermore. Despite never being able to truly tell the difference. Then putting that idea into his malpractice. He could slaughter a whole train cart, but he’d decide to play with their heads. Sneak into their mind and wriggle beneath the brain matter. Press loving kisses to the hippocampus. And right after, tear into it with his teeth. Ravenous. Hungry.

 

There’s nothing he loves more.

 

It’s a swing of emotions. Something Enmu knows too well. And too little.

 

He wonders why emotions are so valued in pesky humans. An emotional attachment is pitiful. Emotional value and connection have no meaning in a dream. In pain, there’s nothing else.

 

To think he sat atop that locomotive in the dead of night, and thought of how well he was doing. How he could’ve done. Had Douma not disturbed him. Taken him away from his “troubles”. The stupid idiot.

 

There’s nothing in this world Enmu hates more than idiots. He’s inferior, yes, but he’s clever. His deceptions are thorough. Douma’s blindness though, it’s hard to break through. Hard to melt. Lessen.

 

And it was even more infuriating when Enmu crawled to Douma. His salvation, his cult, the temple where death and faith collide. Coexist in a court of purity. Douma’s cloak of innocence and charm. Enmu hates it.

 

Douma wears a mask of sweet emotion and care, Enmu wears a suit stolen from a rich victim.

 

Care was never an emotion. And Enmu values his clothing.

 

 

No matter.

Emotions don’t matter here. They never have.

 

The Eternal Paradise Faith has never been a place of emotion, not with the head of it being that man. Only pity, only guidance. That’s what Douma did. He pitied and he guided. Enmu hated the feeling of being pitied. It was something he felt was unease inducing, but the attention of an upperrank was and still is everything he’s wanted. Approval of his abilities. The chance to get more blood.

 

Douma was a chance. Sure, not at true happiness like his cult suggests, but a chance to grow more powerful. To get closer to Muzan-sama.

 

Enmu likes the idea, it’s exciting. Douma is a beauty, a rarity, one who doesn’t even fear the man. Who cannot feel fear and likely never will. He’s too numb. Too ignorant. Who wouldn’t be excited to be near such a pretty lord? Who wouldn’t wish for him in their vicinity? Douma’s devoted followers shared Enmu’s thoughts. More selflessly, at that.

 

He feels useless under Douma. Yet that doesn’t stop the precious dream demon from clawing his way up. From visiting. From taking, if his mood proves soft. As the greedy soul he is, under the class and the dream-like state. The subconscious withers with his flowers, the ones gifted to him, the ones he watches Douma chew on.

 

He’s simply a worm that slipped past and down his throat, for Douma to reach down and grab back up later.

 

Enmu despises how he thinks of him. How his mind drifts back to him in the middle of a fight, how he sleeps in an abandoned home, and he thinks of the temple welcoming him again. Douma holding him. On a rumpled futon reeking of sperm and blood. It’d be warm under the coldness of that mochi soft, white body. He’d still be inside him. He’d still harass the poor cult leader under the sheets. In comfort and in bliss.

 

If it could even exist as that. They’re demons, for godsake. Lord Muzan’s cells overpower any bond they could have, any attempt at serenity out of past sexual encounters. Soothing their bloodlust.

 

In a way, Enmu can feel good over it. Douma can’t feel any of it though. Can he?

 

It’s so pathetic .

 

He tries so hard, and he can’t. His mimicry and cunning are so charmingly upsetting. To Enmu’s gaze it cures his boredom.

 

But his own also curses Douma’s.

 

He leaves traces for him, he leaves the sour scent of rotten meat in him. On his clothes. In his gorgeous temple. Of faith. For a religion that doesn’t properly exist. For a heaven and hell that don’t exist either. Just the void of the dream swallowing them whole.

 

Drowning them. Leaving their breaths paralyzed. Leaving their eyes drawn shut and numb, there’s no pain in a dream. There’s nothing here. Just a figment of what the imagination can create. Or well, what Enmu can weave for Douma.

 

Whatever Douma wants to see. Enmu can craft. With talented hands. His talents have always been appreciated. Even if Muzan-sama can’t see it. And the second to his power can.

 

The second to his power making Enmu think this way. Making his stomach churn and his heavy thighs press together, he needs to focus on his mission, not think so humiliatingly.

 

He feels sick.

 

How could he be so shameless?

 

Enmu’s never been shameful. Never. He’s too deep into his desires and his ego to be shameful.

 

What good is shame in a dream-like state? What good does shame carry when all it does is make him more inferior. To shield his own pride that he puts so much into possessing. That he can’t even bother trusting Douma with anything other than a good night. Then a single tea ceremony, and one where people die. Where he watches. Where he takes.

 

Douma appreciates the sight. Yet when will Enmu see it?

 

Douma likes Enmu. In all honesty, Douma could have Enmu. If the pale thing would just see through it. Would just look further into his mind.

 

Liking someone can’t have something to do with emotions? Yes? Is he wrong? Is this wrong? What does wrong have anything to do with being an immortal being?

 

Wrongful doings are only taken up to the master. The kizuki has no means without the authority of its master.

 

Nothing is wrong when a demon is lustful for blood. Nothing is wrong when Enmu tortures his humans, and tortures his own body, he isn’t doing wrong. He’s being a demon. Merely so. He’s been a demon for a long time. Not as long of a time as Douma. Douma had no business with Enmu. He has no business with any of the other demons, they all hate him in some form. They all never show much like for Enmu either. But again, why would it matter?

 

There’s nothing close between them. Nothing except the connection of their bodies in a sloppy fashion. In a slow, ugly manner. Shameless and loud. Sticky and nasty.

 

Douma had ripped out his vocal cords. He had returned the favor. What was the point?

 

Did Douma enjoy Enmu’s taste? His mouth, the way his title rumbled in his charming voice?

 

Did he want Enmu?

 

Or the dreams Enmu brought?

 

The thought again. It’s exciting. It makes something warm burn in his close-to-bursting veins. That thought. The illusion, Douma wanting a lowermoon in his vicinity. Latching onto him and holding him. Him. Does he truly deserve that privilege?

 

The privilege of being able to wriggle into his brain like he does with the cultists, he doesn’t ask for permission to eat those lowly followers of the uppermoon, he never does. Why would he? Why should he? This privilege is priceless. He values it. He hates it all the same. Douma is too precious. Too good. Enmu isn’t. Enmu’s arrogance only goes so far until he’s but a patch of dirt under Douma’s heel.

 

A monster cradled to his chest like he belongs there. Biting into his flesh and ripping it up, just to lick beneath it. To feel Douma shiver. Twitch. Anything but an emotional reaction. Enmu fed off of the subconscious, the mentality in a spiritual core. The body that died out and rotted to become easier for his own digestion. Douma was not easy to read. Obviously.

 

He will be though. When Enmu finally gets the chance to use him for his purpose. A cult leader, an object of prayer, one where Enmu can dance his disturbing mind game. Write the steps. Present them in an eerily sweet dream. Break Douma’s mind where it’s already been shattered by years of trauma. Enmu reads through his memories where they’re potent. His urge to snap the rank from the colorful iris is strong. Upper two, lower one.

 

One only exists for one purpose. In one eye.

 

Opals and sapphires.

 

He’d pluck those eyes out and wear them as jewels, and he’d let the other take a bite of his own.

 

The eyes are the best part. Even with the hideous kizuki mark in the center of each. The eyes repulse and captivate him. It’s a turn of emotions. A turn of distrust and fear at what could happen. What could they do together besides bed each other. Hurt each other. Hold each other. As if they aren’t heinous creatures.

 

As if Enmu can rightfully display what is dream and what is reality, and not make a fool of himself. Douma can dote on him. Douma can do what he wants, however Enmu has a status to uphold. And to grow. Enmu cannot be changed. That’s simply how he is. And Douma’s never bothered questioning it. He’s never bothered asking himself why the ignorance is there, why Enmu scoffs at him when he tries to hold him. Why Enmu brushes past him and can’t read him. Oh, Enmu. The poor lower demon.

 

They’re very different. Very similar. Not a huge contrast, not a huge deal either.

 

He still wishes Enmu would savor his company as much as he does to him.

 

He wishes he’d come to him more. He wishes Muzan-sama wouldn’t scold him for it. He wishes the thoughts weren’t read, and he wishes his cells didn’t stem so close to the king himself. At least that’s what Muzan called what he saw in a cracked mirror. The shine of a crying man whose emotions can never be regulated. Whose happiness will never shine as bright as his apathy. After one hundred years of it, Douma can no longer be blessed by it.

 

Douma cannot wish for things when he has Enmu. Enmu is no wish, he is a gross mutt and he has never been pampered like Douma. Enmu can give him beautiful dreams. Lovely scapes of falsehood, the sun rising and skin no longer burning harsh and mean. Then his heart is swallowed by a rough embrace of a serpent in a cruel nightmare. With horizontal slits for pupils.

 

His body is mutilated, Enmu is happy.

 

Enmu is happy . He loves when Enmu shows joy. His expressiveness. His soft, sadistic, or lack there of, smile that’s so genuine. So pretty and so ugly.

 

So what if his body is in pieces with multiple missing from their places? Enmu is grateful. Happy.

 

In a fake show of torture. One that leaves his sheets soaked and Enmu’s body gone next to him.

 

Douma hates the quiet after such a thing. He hates everything about it.

 

And he loves everything about Enmu.

 

Has he realized this?

 

Has his dead heart begun to beat?

 

Is that what that is?

 

It sinks every time Enmu denies him and his gentle advances, pushes him away with a wave of his hand. Dismisses his “superior”. It sinks down like his mind when he dreams. And he can’t wake up. His tears fall every time Enmu pets him like a dog, holds him in his lap and cherishes him, even if it is as fake as it can be. Even if Enmu can only feel desire for power and what his body can bring, what the blood lying in his veins beneath his plush skin can offer him in rank.

 

He doesn’t know why his emotional barriers have suddenly broken after one dream. After one night.

 

How did it occur. How and why. Where. Where in his mind had the memory unlocked itself, where in his mind had the belief resurfaced.

 

Was it ever there in the first place?

 

Did Enmu struggle at all?

 

No. He was too prideful. Too selfish.

 

His kisses meant bites. His hands meant molestation. His dreams meant secretive nightmares hidden in a sweet little deception. Hypnosis was not like poison. Love was not like deception. Douma has seen it. Douma has mimicked it. Enmu not so much. Enmu’s been below for so long, over several decades. Not yet a century. Half way to it. Everything had a meaning with Enmu. Nothing had a meaning with Douma.

 

Not when he felt nothing.

 

Enmu knew about it.

 

And he never forgot it after finding out. After analyzing every aspect of the kizuki, and all of its members. To challenge one. To use one. To ruin another, and Douma was who Enmu found the easiest. Who took him in without trouble.

 

Douma’s lack of feeling was something admirable, it wasn’t like his own limitations. His way of showing discomfort and way of expressing those upsetting, unsightly things. The perverse nature showed no bounds. For the two of them. Despite Enmu being a prude in some respects.

 

Enmu could feel, he just couldn’t differentiate it. Douma couldn’t feel. Douma couldn’t see what he felt. Couldn’t tell what he felt. Not until Enmu made the organ in his chest cavity rock into a steady beat. Made his physical reactions all the more worth earning. A blush became a moment. A smile became a crooked show of mockery, of what humans have as love. Call love. Call adoration and genuine affection.

 

Douma acted it out beautifully. And Enmu couldn’t tell it from truth or lie. He was good at lying. Once.

 

He can’t lie about how he finds Douma silly. So, so silly. It’s funny. Quite cute, really.

 

Douma acts too nice to him. Offers too much. When Enmu offers too little, and doesn’t try to give up more than a few scraps. Douma is happy with scraps. Enmu has always been happy with scraps. It’s all he’s ever eaten. Though this isn’t about their diet, now is it?

 

Enmu doesn’t trust Douma.

 

Douma trusts Enmu too much.

 

Douma is too desperate for Enmu’s company, Enmu is too desperate to get him under his control. Douma must be aware of it. If he wasn’t; Enmu would have to call him dense. Not that Douma isn’t or is. He’s clever. Clever in a way that Enmu just loathes. His cunning makes him sick. His beauty and rarity make Enmu feel like he could chew his cock off. Ugh.

 

Not that he hasn’t tried, that is.

 

Though, whatever gives Enmu the right to question Douma. He is his superior. He’s above him. Enmu is below. Douma has a place in the Kizuki, he earned it, Enmu was given his because another had fallen. He loves his position. But he craves more. More. More, and more. Receiving such a hefty sample, a massive number of Muzan-sama’s prized blood, had taken its toll. Yet Enmu’s body can take it. He can handle it. He can take more. He’ll do whatever it takes to have more.

 

If it means having a place close to the master, and if it means being approved, without reality and dreams plaguing it, as his young self had wanted long ago. He would do anything. Even lie down his guard for Douma and his humility. Because Douma is gullible. In Enmu’s eyes. Because Douma is so trusting, so willing to offer these cutesy things. Enmu may as well take advantage of that.

 

It hardly took much. Douma finds him when he wants him. Enmu isn’t against it. It’s harmless, for the most part.

 

He still doesn’t know why he doesn’t put up a better fight though. Why he doesn’t push Douma around as he is so docile. So soft. So . . . disgustingly unfeeling. His remarkable apathy is somehow faux and somehow so real at the same moment. That apathy is something Enmu sees as shockingly soothing. It feels that way for a reason he’s unaware of. Shockingly familiar.

 

It shows no bounds. It doesn’t come very often. Only when Douma doesn’t mask his pretty face. When Douma feels no physicality. When Douma doesn’t think. When Douma, just . . . is Douma. The emotionally blind demon with the beautiful pale hair and kaleidoscopic eyes.

 

Emotionally numb. Emotionally ignorant. In ways Enmu will barely understand, comprehend in their times together. How long he’s sought for such a morsel. Manipulating it to bend to him.

 

He doesn’t deserve Douma.

 

He knows it.

 

He’ll never live it down no matter how many times Douma invites him to his temple. Lies him down softly, kisses him without hesitation, welcomes Enmu’s rough treatment and hypnosis. With open arms. Like he wants it.

 

Douma can’t say what he wants. Douma’s never known what he’s wanted. Enmu has seen it in his memories, has studied it.

 

Then why does he whisper that he’s wanted Enmu.

 

Just why does he cling to Enmu and force him into a sad little snuggle after he finishes.

 

It’s so, so sad.

 

How these things happen so quickly and so slowly too. So often. He even finds himself missing the moments. Rarely he does. He dreams about them. Enmu’s recently figured out that sleeping without Douma’s arms around him is rather difficult. How has that happened. How has he gotten so attached.

 

And why is Douma feeding into it?

 

Why?

 

What has Enmu done besides hurt the poor thing? What has he done besides leave “gifts” inside him? Has he ever truly cared for Douma?

 

Had he ever cared for anyone?

 

It keeps playing in his mind. It keeps repeating. In a way that makes him angry. Frustrating the precious dream demon he nearly dislocates his own weaker jaw. So angry he yells at Douma, and at his own pawns.

 

But Douma isn’t phased by the hate. The loath. Douma just softens his expression and frowns that sweet frown that makes Enmu hurt furthermore. And Douma holds him. Holds him until Enmu shuts up. Until Enmu stops thrashing about and stops screaming obscenities. Echoing. Whispering.

 

Douma cries his emotionless tears. Enmu laps them up impatiently, pushes the uppermoon away harshly, and runs out of the temple to get back to his duties.

 

Douma continues to cry. Not so emotionless now.

 

Douma misses Enmu.

 

He didn’t know what missing anyone felt like until he met Enmu.

 

It feels like something invisible is tugging on his senses, the sounds, the smells, the sights, they’re all too potent and overpowering.

 

Enmu’s sweet mumbles. His whispers to help Douma rest his eyes. His shouting, his screams of countless insults, that somehow sounded so beautiful despite being so rude and cruel to Douma. The smell of rotten meat attached to his skin. The blood under his skin. In his veins. It’s repulsive, but Douma cannot feel disgust over this. He never has. Not how Enmu wanted him too once. Not how Enmu wants him too now. The sight of the lowermoon’s hateful face. He’s so expressive.

 

Douma could never be that way.

 

That makes his tears worsen. Somehow.

 

He doesn’t want to feel. He wants to feel. Nothing makes any sense. The performance of being an uppermoon has had this effect for the years he’s been alive. The years he’s been chasing happiness and lethargy all the same, the year he found Enmu out. The year he caught eyes with him right as his comrades were slaughtered. How Enmu didn’t pay him any mind at first. At first, the lost devotional parts were fixated on Muzan-sama. Focused on the pain and suffering of others. The pride of being the last lowerrank in the kizuki. And living on.

 

Douma could help that.

 

Douma could do so much better with Enmu. He could make everything better. He can make everything work, he wouldn’t mind being used, as long as Enmu keeps giving him those expressions he can follow. As long as Enmu keeps giving him his time.

 

He’s desperate to have someone to fill the silence. The void.

 

He doesn’t care who. He doesn’t care.

 

He wants Enmu though.

 

His wants can’t be ignored any longer. It’s grown so, so large now. It makes his teeth ache. His eyes drown with saline that should not be there. Far less for a lowermoon. One beneath him. A worm that’s been swallowed too deep in one of Douma’s insect eating escapades.

 

That sits in his belly and gnaws at his insides.

 

That corrupts his entire being. Gulps down his energy and blood like a leech, and he can’t stop wanting to watch it feed. Watch it grow bigger and healthier with the thick crimson in his veins.

 

Enmu would like that. Enmu always loves his blood.

 

Enmu’s never left the temple unsatisfied in the body.

 

Douma’s always made an effort to keep Enmu fed. Like a little pet.

 

Enmu isn’t a pet though. Douma is in no need for more pets when he has so many humans at his beck and call. He knows Enmu would rather be dirt under him than be pampered like a pet. That’s how his mind works. Douma can’t help it much. Only speak his sweet words. His wisdom. His faith. And hope to gain Enmu’s trust.

 

To show he truly can treat him better. To tell him how much he truthfully wants to have Enmu’s company and not just mock him.

 

But how would that work. . . Douma does nothing but mock others. He acts out. He mimics them. Their tears and their grins that have made his permanently too wide.

 

Enmu can’t read through a faux smile.

 

Perhaps that’s why he’s so upset with Douma’s emotional values all the time. Why he’s so quick to insult him. Why he offers only slight respect and care, then the next he slips into a deep hate. He bristles like an upset stray. Douma keeps trying to domesticate. To hold. To throw a bone.

 

Enmu hates him.

 

And he hates himself even more for being forced to calm down, to relax and take Douma’s advances for granted.

 

Take a bite of the bone. Then bite the hand that feeds him so graciously. It’ll leave a mark, but Douma won’t complain. Only smile his weird grin and cradle Enmu’s head to his wide chest. And feel him bite more. Feel him siphon.

 

He won’t complain.

 

He never does. His dramatics are fake, his charm is only so adorable before Enmu gets upset. Before Enmu’s deranged personality splits, and he cries into Douma’s chest while the vibrations of his humming radiate around his skull and about the entire temple. His lullaby that sounds so similar to his own. A randomized lullaby at that. How uncouth. He could be absorbed. Douma could end his pathetic life and his lone mission as the last remaining lowermoon demon.

 

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t absorb Enmu to “live within him” as he says. He holds him tight, though not tight enough to do such a thing. Enmu can’t die. Not yet. He can’t die or Muzan-sama will be more disappointed in him.

 

Douma shushes those thoughts with his arms breaking Enmu’s spine.

 

Like he could sense the self-deprecation. The sense that Muzan-sama was back on his mind again. Back on the tracks, awaiting to be derailed.

 

He hates to disappoint those he sees as superior. However Douma never seems to get disappointed. Only slightly displeased, if at all. Displeasure and distaste have never been something like disdain. Douma’s felt only so many before the sensation left completely.

 

His spine heals fast now. Douma is pleased. The thoughts slip.

 

But which of it is real or fake?

 

A heady illusion surrounding Enmu’s mind. His vision cracking at the seams and subsiding to darkness. Feeling something physical must mean he is awake. The utter adoration is an argument to reality. It’s nothing physical. Physical pain wrecks his senses and keeps him up. Enmu needs physicalities to know he’s real. To know this is real.

 

He seeks out pain for such a simple reason. Douma seeks out pain to feel something other than numbness, he lets Enmu eat him, because it feels like something more. He lets Enmu commit these heinous acts with his body to feel a semblance of emotional distress as he sees in the ones he eats without any word of wisdom. It never works, but hey, it’s worth a try? Right? Is it not a good idea? Is it not worth it?

 

Enmu doesn’t know his history as Douma does.

 

Enmu has never been on the brink of death to see any of it. Douma’s never forgotten his.

 

The past has no place in his temple. It has a place only in Enmu’s hands. The information of it fuels his power. Helps his nightmares become realer. To the point nobody can escape his twisted web.

 

Enmu doesn’t have a place in Douma’s temple either. He hasn’t even bothered to adorn the proper traditional dress code for a cult. He doesn’t have a need for it, he may be always welcome, but Douma has to drag him inside half the time.

 

He’s not willing to be in the same place for one time too long.

 

It feels wrong. He feels wrong in such a grand palace with Douma.

 

He doesn’t belong there. However Douma’s insistence is hard not to fall for, he ends up just tucking himself under the man’s arm and cloak. He hates being inferior.

 

It’s apart of his entire character though. He can’t escape the fact others are better than him. He can’t get on their level without using someone else. It’s a sickening loop Enmu’s had since he was a human. And he’s forgotten that part of himself long ago. No need to bring it back up.

 

The temple of Eternal Paradise Faith welcomes nothing of the like.

 

It’s a place of sloth, of refuge, guidance. Where Douma can give and receive money, status, and love. However Lord Founder as the pesky humans know him as has never received love. He’s toyed with love. Tossing it between partners. Man and woman alike. Greedy, harmful men and women. He’s felt maternal love, admiration, but those two have only lasted so long before he went numb again. Before his emotional blindness took and bounded him to his cushion. His hands clasped together.

 

“You’re breaking the gods’ hearts, my sweet.”

 

“You will die.”

 

“But it’s all going to be okay. Because you’ll live on with me. Within me.”

 

“You will be shown true paradise.”

 

“I’ll protect you.”

 

Lies. All deep, rooted lies. Enmu wishes he could have such a depth in his pawns. All he has are some sugary dreams to share. To manipulate. To drug. Enmu’s dug his dull fingernails beneath the dirt hard, trying to graze those roots before they sprouted. Only to find broken shells. And plants unable to grow. Flowers unable to bloom bright. Because lies don’t last long. They’re forever white, and forever pale. As pale as Douma’s beauty.

 

In which the cultists adored. In which the cultists loved. Those seeds may never grow into the flowers Douma cherishes like priceless children. Priceless jewels surrounded in feigned riches.

 

The seeds will never be shown proper care. No sunlight, not a droplet of fresh water or rain.

 

Just dry rot under cheap soil.

 

Is that really what it’s come to?

 

Is that why Enmu can’t crack through Douma? Is this why Douma can’t break Enmu in? Why he’s so untrusting, and so loyal in the same manner. It’s questions Douma has no business being apart of.

 

The seeds Enmu’s shown fake sunlight too. Fictional white light, rupturing his skin and burning it from the inside and out. With his tongue alongside it. To make those seeds grow. To make them bloom into a pretty pink flower he could pluck and suckle the honey out of. Hold between his fingers and taste. Lick and suck. Until Douma would cry out, and make a mess of the futon.

 

Those occurrences always made Enmu happy. Gradually easing his suffering, planted between divinity’s legs. With his tongue somewhere far more unsightly than the power in their actual bodies.

 

They don’t have a bond. Their bodies connect, physically. Nothing with emotion to streak his reputation and other relationships. Nothing serious. Nothing overly complicated. Nothing relatively . . . pleasant. Appearance wise. Logic wise.

 

A bond was something close. Enmu didn’t enjoy being close in contact with Douma, after sex normally. After a short realization of his own self worth. No matter how determined the uppermoon was in the beginning to get close with him.

 

And how determined the lowermoon was to get closer to Muzan-sama. Not Douma. Not the second half to his power. That stood taller, that had a pretty grin and a performance Enmu couldn’t perfect. A cult that did his bidding. A little moon that gave him dreams.

 

He had precious followers. Douma protected them. He took them. He helped himself to a feast, he let them continue living without the worry of heaven nor hell.

 

He didn’t worry either.

 

He never has. He knows death will come, and the dream will end. He knows Enmu will slip away. He knows this. He knows everything. And nothing at the same time.

 

Enmu is too devoted. Douma is too far from devotion.

 

They can’t be together. Not unless Douma tries. Not unless Enmu abides by his tears, looks into his eyes and not just into the swirling colors under his mark of number two. Enmu could get a read if he tried. Enmu could see what he really wants to feel if he just tried harder.

 

Enmu could make everything better, just like Douma wants to do for him. If he tried harder. Put up a better fight, a better show.

 

Everything could make sense. He could live eternally with Enmu. Without stress, without a pulse.

 

It’s all a matter of what could occur. What could be expressed if he broke his mind down further. The milk of the moon would be guzzled, puked up, then the process would begin again. A loop would throw Douma down, and would put Enmu back into the headspace that he wasn’t more than his hunger for power.

 

It’d make him hungry.

 

It’d make him ravenous.

 

The demonic ferocity he’s only experienced so many times. A small handful of times. Except those times have increased by a tenfold. Where he took chunks of flesh from those who gave him pleasure, where he gave everything up to feel pain again, where he took chunks out of Douma.

 

Where he bit him.

 

And Douma let it happen.

 

Caved under his hunger, weak fangs and greedy hands. Douma just allowed it. Just perfect, huh?

 

 

•

𐮚𐮙𐬺.

 

 

    Enmu can’t deny he feels his stomach both burn with heat, but with hunger. His organs twist and turn with a slight need he hates to feel during a train ride. He’s supposed to be focused, eating the humans he’s trapped under his spell, simply anything but being captivated by these thoughts.

 

He can’t deny he’s starving. Not for just a moment passes by where he doesn’t feel hunger, and for an uppermoon no less. It must be so pathetic. It could be so much more thrilling if he wasn’t so miserable over it. His mission is going so lovely. So, so perfect. The blood pooling under his skin is hot and powerful.

 

It’s hardly his own.

 

He runs his fingertips absently over the marks below his eyes, his hair is being tousled by the passing wind. The strands falling into a mix of raspberry red and a sickly sea blue. Paired with the deep midnight.

 

His mind stays on one thing. His tasks at hand. Kill the idiot human boy with the hanafuda earrings, murder a hashira which has already boarded, fight an upper ranking demon and usurp their position. Easy as tea and cake.

 

But Enmu’s mind has always wandered.

 

Enmu cannot fixate on one thing so simply. His mind rushes when he shuts his eyes, looks over the interior of the train and the sleeping passengers. They’ve been captured.

 

His nightmares are welcoming themselves in. His dreams are weaved beautifully, he controls each of these.

 

However the core of Enmu’s being reverts back to Douma.

 

It throbs and growls, like an upset dog that still craves attention. It gnashes its teeth. His fangs ache. His grimace deepens. The pawns are enjoying their dreams, the mission is going just swell, Muzan-sama will be happy. He’ll be pleased with Enmu. He’ll approve of him and his oddities. One day, he’ll get a proper dream. He’ll see what reality truly is.

 

Then why is he still thinking of that blonde haired beauty. Why is he feeling the pressure of more power than he can mange, and still his broken mind is dragging Douma back into it. Its bounds.

 

Douma goes easily. He softens easily, opens himself for Enmu. Smiles kindly. Warmly. A hollow kindness that makes Enmu feel worse. His delight is shallow. He’s shallow. Meanwhile Enmu can’t be any deeper into the subconscious sucking him under the waves. In peace and in control.

 

It should feel good. It doesn’t. It feels numbing. Like he’s quivering without any sensation in his fingertips.

 

Why is it so cold?

 

Who has come to him? Who has been summoned? He’s not good enough to be able to summon another demon!

 

His thin shoulders shudder, his eyes open. Vision back to the train tracks illuminated by the train’s lights. The locomotive rattling softly.

 

He tenses up when a wide and broad, though plush chest pushes to his back. A head coming to rest in his neck. Blonde hair. Cold breath. Unnatural coldness, everywhere. A soft face rubbing against the collar of his coat. Arms coming to hug him.

 

He’s tense.

 

Douma’s pretty tone rattles in his ear softer than the train ever could.

 

“What a peaceful little place for a date.” His voice carries a mocking sleepiness. A mask of vulnerability and lack of fear as he sniffs Enmu’s neck. Making the lowermoon realize just what’s happening.

 

A date? What?

 

“Ah, lord Douma.” The honorific sounds familiarly bittersweet. He reaches to awkwardly pat one of the muscular arms holding his waist hostage, earning a gentle purr from the being pressing close behind him. He’s so fragile. For someone built this way, so perfect. So priceless. Douma doesn’t mind the bittersweetness, he’s grown used to it.

 

He still leans down to cling to Enmu further.

 

He always does this. What a nuisance.

 

“You believe my mission is a date?” A melody is carried in Enmu’s voice. One that loosens any sense of pang in Douma’s body. He likes Enmu most when he’s talking. When his face gains a look of pride or of knowledge. Even if Enmu hates how his voice sounds. Even if Enmu is not the most attractive demon out there. Nor was he the most attractive human man. “You’re silly as ever, demon.”

 

“Oh!! Don’t say that.” His reply is assured and practiced. Like a flustered maiden. The ones he kills. The ones he’s murdered before. His head slumps further into Enmu’s shoulder, making him hold his weight. And so he can peak around his body and look at him clearer.

 

Enmu raises a slender brow. He puts up the facade of not being bothered, he doesn’t care if Douma is around, he simply has no clue what he feels when Douma holds him this way. His discomfort is less apparent than when he giggles. The soft tune whistling in the uppermoon’s ears. He hums in return. Nose brushing an elegantly sharp lapel.

 

“The temple is so quiet without you,” Either it be a pout Enmu hears or a smile. He can’t help but loosen slightly. He knows about the palace. He’s been there before. Douma lives there. Douma rules over that massive building like a true god. Perhaps he is one. Enmu shall never know. “You know how much I hate the quiet.” It’s not a lie.

 

Douma is one to throw a fit when things are too silent. Despite being used to it. Despite knowing silence just as he knows his own apathy. He hates it. He hates being without Enmu’s whispers in his ear. And he didn’t know he could hate anything in this world. What good was dislikes when your entire existence is for the profit and benefit of others. What good has it ever been?

 

“I’m deeply sorry - “ Enmu sighs a breathy sigh. “Lord Douma, it’s not in my best interests to constantly be in your presence.”

 

The lord in question hugs him tighter. Breaking one of Enmu’s ribs from the inside. It cracks and his breath wheezes. “My, my! Have some mercy—“ Though through those wheezes Enmu laughs. His rib heal quickly and he bats Douma away.

 

The uppermoon loosens his hold ever so slightly. “It’s just . . . you always leave so fast!”

 

“Leaving me with a mess,” He murmurs in a petulant fashion. A new mannerism he must have picked up from one of the human couples he stalks in his temple. Enmu isn’t fond of brats. No. The head of dark hair turns slightly to see a frown had etched onto Douma’s flawless features. “Yes, yet you wake up pleased, do you not?” Enmu says right back. The frown is erased.

 

“Oh. Right, I do!” He smiles for him. Douma doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t need to sleep. Enmu puts him to rest after one of their . . . expeditions. His dreams are always quite exciting. But awakening to an empty space next to him is something that makes his filled inside twitch.

 

Douma’s laughter rings like the sweetest bells, takes away Enmu’s bitterness with a wind chime. A cat’s comforting purrs. A bird’s helpless cheeping. A song. It’s far more of a melody than his own. It serves to remind him how much better at things Douma is as to him.

 

The confusion of the situation fades. Replaced with a calm. Does the uppermoon realize it?

 

No. He never realizes anything. He can’t even realize what he feels at the moment.

 

Enmu’s snappy attitude returns. With that grin.

 

“So,” He begins. Tilting his head back to Douma’s shoulder. He’s not surprised to feel his face moving closer to the exposing skin of his neck. The veins. But he is surprised when Douma jerks away at the smell inside them. Muzan-sama’s blood. Not Enmu’s rot that coats his clothes in a horrendous musk. He drums his dull fingertips over an arm cloaked away in a smooth cotton sweater. It’s red. Just as the blood is. “What brings you here? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

 

Somehow it comes out soft.

 

Douma flutters his pale lashes. No dye concealing the natural color. It’s then that Enmu takes notice; Douma’s face looks ethereal in its entirety. Even for someone who values comfort over appearance. The appeal still makes the dream demon’s guts wrench under his skin.

 

He swallows, “Please answer me, my lord.”

 

“Shhh.” Enmu grumbles when a clawed finger presses to his lips. Douma’s crooning is insufferable, however Enmu is not in the right place to disobey. He forces his shoulders to go lax. Forces his teeth not to snap at the digit tapping the plush lower lip. Smearing the darkish rouge.

 

“Why so upset? Did you miss me that much?” He’s playing the part of an arrogant man now. One who thinks he knows so much when in reality he doesn’t. It’s not far from what Enmu’s seen in Douma’s collective memories.

 

“Did you really miss meee? I missed youu. . .” He drawls out his words just to annoy his so-called subordinate. Further, at least.

 

Enmu can deny it. He knows that. Douma can see through his lies and his truths. He may be the only one.

 

He backs out of the uppermoon’s embrace, his footsteps make no sound on the top of this train cart. It still manages to shock him Douma’s gotten so used to him. That he’s partially conscious of the blood demon art controlling this entire train. But clearly not enough to leave Enmu alone.

 

Still, Enmu lets himself get an eyeful of his superior when he replies. Voice taking the same exact tone with no room for change.

 

“I have. A little,” The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy Douma’s unknowing want for attention. He taps his boot clad foot like an upset rabbit. The comparison to those insolent little innocence inducing creatures always come back to mind when Enmu thinks of his dear higher upper.

 

“Ohh?” Douma smiles his silly smile that reflects more stupidity than the colors in his gaze that follows Enmu’s over his body. The usual hakama pants and sweater combination he dawns more often than less. More comfortably done than the lowermoon’s formal western cloth.

 

“Yes. I admit, I have missed you.” Faux humility. Masked, unknown discomfort.

 

“And you, you’ve just been longing for me? Mm?”

 

If Douma could be caught off guard, he would’ve been at that. The rhetorical question makes something warm stir in his stomach. Paired with the droopy, sleepless blue eyes so sharp and though so soft, staring through his skin makes his sweater suddenly feel too tight around him. He giggles like a child. His laughter too sweet. Candy and its sweetness that makes Enmu’s teeth sore.

 

He could spit up a cavity if he tried. That’s how sweet it is.

 

“Am I right on the money?”

 

Douma’s giggles intensify and he nods his head of blonde hair. A hand coming up to hide away his grin as it cracks the surrounding skin of his mouth. Rips the skin and leaves black threads to heal.

 

“I would’ve guessed. You like me that much.” Enmu feels almost flattered.

 

And because of that, he doesn’t even mind when Douma wraps him up in another hug.

 

It’s a position he’s seen in couples. All over each other. Shameless. Disgusting. So shallow it makes Enmu want to submerge himself into one of his own nightmares.

 

Douma’s posture is weak and Enmu’s legs are pressed between his thick thighs, their bodies are forced to touch and he’s held against his wide chest. He doesn’t hate it. It’s comfortable. But he does hate it. His rot is coating the uppermoon’s. His life is touching his. His immortality is brushing his own. The hand holding the back of his head and the other gentle on his waist and the slope of his slightly fatter hip. He wants to squirm away. Like the pathetic insect he is.

 

Yet all the dream demon does is let Douma hold him. Cradle him like he’s precious jewels found under mountains of dirt. Their faces are pressed together as well. Not a moment of space any longer between them. Oh, he’s in so much trouble. He’s in for a rude awakening.

 

Going as far as to let his own arm curl around those broad shoulders to bring him closer.

 

The other colliding with Douma’s beautiful locks of hair. A part of him wants to feel safe as he fists the locks roughly. The uppermoon remains ever patient. Ever so dutiful. A little whine slipping from his lips.

 

“Don’t act cocky with me again, okay, my dear?” It’s false. But Douma kisses his cheek like it’s a promise. He won’t be cocky again. He’ll be good. The hand on his hip paws at him. Those pretty lips on his face start to chew on the plush flesh.

 

Enmu doesn’t care for them when they rip out one of the gems under his eyes. A bit of blood, it’s lapped up. Douma chews the piece between his teeth. It’s good. Despite the grossness of Muzan’s blood mixed with Enmu’s.

 

The patch heals over. The marks are permanent, so another grows in. Douma still makes an effort to lick at the skin. Making Enmu slump a bit more into his neck. Breathing against the skin. To earn a mere shiver from his lord.

 

The next request never ceases to amaze him.

 

“Won’t you spend more time with me?” The hairs on the back of Enmu’s neck stand up. Douma brushes over them with freezing fingertips. The black and teal mix trickle through his fingers, the strands thin and smooth. He plucks the head away from his neck like he would a stray kitten. By the scruff of his nape. Helplessly, Enmu grimaces.

 

“Please?” His thighs tighten around the dream demon’s.

 

He wants this.

 

Desperately, he pushes their groins together.

 

Enmu can’t say no to that angel face.

 

“Ufh - fine. If it’s what you desire.” He pushes Douma away. Not wanting to get caught up in him again. He brushes off his coat where strands of blonde had shed from Douma’s scalp. He’s glad for the modern tail in the front, it covers the impression of his half-way hard erection well.

 

“Goodie! I’ll take you back to the temple.” Hands grab ahold of his own. Holding him captive. He hides his frown, his face showing a smile instead. In return to Douma’s.

 

He doesn’t dare complain when Douma, in his inhumane swiftness, quite literally leaps off of the still moving train with Enmu in tow. It pops his arm out of place and he has to put it back into place while latching onto the uppermoon’s side. The train is soon disappearing into the background. Forgotten. His mission, which he’ll have to seek out eventually afterwards. The moonlight illuminates Douma for a short second, his youthful features glowing white.

 

Enmu hates how much he admires the look.

 

This all feels so natural. And Enmu loathes it. This feels like it’s been done more than a few times; like they’ve been at this when they were human. Which makes no sense! It just doesn’t! Oh, how damn frustrating. How infuriated it makes Enmu! He wants Douma! He wants Douma, so, so badly! He’s stuck to his teeth like thick caramel. He wants him now. He wishes he’d tackled him on top of the Mugen Train.

 

His wishes aren’t cut short when Douma winks at him. Cheeky. The tip of his red tongue peeking from his plump lips. The dream demon groans, how he hates this.

 

Damn it all to hell. He’d love to kiss that mouth.

 

His thoughts rush as the air blows around them and tousles their clothes. Douma’s fast. So fast Enmu has to cling to him just so he doesn’t get lost or is dropped to the ground. He wouldn’t complain. He’s used to it. He deserves it.

 

He stops those thoughts when the lights of the temple conceal the moon. The forests are full and lush, the trees surround the entire building like a protective layer. The building is massive. A temple. A traditional temple that’s likely laid here for centuries. The foundation has not crumbled. The wood is not old, it looks brand new. Maybe Enmu’s mind is becoming hazy again.

 

He’s carefully set down on the cobblestone ground that keeps the garden in a beautiful scene. A steady stream, with flowers blooming and so well taken care of, it makes the dream demon wonder just how Douma does it. And if he could ever receive that same care from him. He’s never had anything similar. Only tastes. Smidges. Those have not lasted as he wanted.

 

The Mugen Train feels like a distant dream now.

 

Like a dream where you’re still awake. But it feels as if you’re watching an illusion as your eyes are shut. Something your imagination makes up for a small period of time, where one is temporarily numbed. Trapped. This palace is a trap. Douma’s hold is a trap. This sweet taste is imprisonment. Attaching himself to Douma is a mind numbing imprisonment.

 

His eyes gaze up at the temple and the gardens that surround it. The pond with the infamous koi fish, the lotus flowers and their lily pads cushioning their beauty. Douma likes these flowers. The lilies creating a foul odor amongst the purity of the lotuses. Even if their purity is one of the same.

 

Something sour, bitter. But sweet.

 

Just as Enmu is to Douma. Surrounding him.

 

Catching the lowermoon’s gaze drifting, Douma brings him closer by a heavy, though delicate hand on his brittle shoulder. Already beginning to walk past the ponds and the swimming inhabitants flocking to his feet, and to the gardens. The surrounding flowers and the statues of gods Enmu doesn’t know the names of. The statues of Douma in position with these gods, unison, if you will.

 

They’re all enchanting. Enmu’s been under his own violent enchantments, his dreams and harsh realities. But never has he been so enchanted without a speckle of envy, at such spectacles.

 

He wants to wreck them. Just to feel that enchantment slip away.

 

His eyes drag back to the lord strolling with him, he’s tucked into Douma’s side. It’s inhumanely cold. Around forty degrees at his normal temperature. Maybe fifty. Enmu has never bothered to check. Demons can’t get sick, after all.

 

He doesn’t care for the cold. He’s become rather expectant of it.

 

There’s not much he can do.

 

He’s but a vermin under Douma’s arm right now.

 

“Your mission, why the train?” The curiosity so childlike it makes Enmu sick. He has no other choice other than to answer though.

 

“It makes it easier to eat humans at a time,” The dream demon answers simply. Douma frowns. He doesn’t particularly prefer the term: “eat”. He doesn’t eat his victims, not usually, he saves them. Enmu knows it. Enmu knows about this complex in his otherwise numb mind. He is truly thinking he’s saving these insolent souls. Enmu had half the heart in his empty chest cavity to smack him when he found that out. “Don’t be so upset, have you forgotten our appetites are different?”

 

Douma’s brow raises. “What’s so different?”

 

“Oh, silly. You are just clueless, aren’t you?”

 

“I forget.” His goofy smile returns. The hand on Enmu’s shoulder travels to his upper back. Feeling the fabric of his coat and the thin skin there. The vertebrate poking out through the layers of fabric. He taps one deliberately. Enmu pays it no mind.

 

“You’re picky. I am not.” His own hand is placed on his chest as if it were a declaration of pride. It’s but a clarification from the precious dream demon. Whatever it is, Douma takes it with a grain of salt. He hardly knows what picky could mean in this sentence. He eats beautiful, young women, and those who beg for paradise. He bathes in sake and virgin blood. He gargles the blood of a severed head from the stump of its neck, then keeps the skull to remember their structure.

 

He’s picky?

 

He’s seen Enmu eat. Enmu is polite, he’s also a demon. He’s a ravenous demon. He who plays with his food. Douma plays with his battles like a fox taunting its prey, giggling highly and hopping swiftly, then biting deep into the neck until it stops its movements. Save for the times his followers catch him “saving” the others. Enmu carves his meals like the finest meats. The lowermoon torments his victims, he’s tormented Douma’s cultists before too. Without asking first. Hmph.

 

Douma has the finest meats, he’s an exclusive lord with exquisite tastes. His subordinate gets his scraps.

 

If it can be called that. Their differences, this relationship.

 

They walk together without any trouble. Enmu is bitter, though he simply can’t deny Douma. He can’t get in trouble. He’s already losing so much just by being around an uppermoon without fighting them. He hasn’t fought Douma physically. Ever. He doesn’t need to. He can easily submerge him into a dream, feast on what lies behind the kizuki eyes he possesses, and take them for his own. He’ll use him for longer.

 

At least until he passes the mission. At least until he gets more blood.

 

“I don’t think so.” Douma huffs out, making no move to push Enmu off or leave him astray.

 

“Oh?” His hand reluctantly comes to rest on the uppermoon’s waist. The one with the mouth on the back of the palm. It’s grinning, as if completely conscious. It’s drooling. Before Enmu makes it stop. Screw these idiotic oddities he’s been blessed with.

 

Pressing into the muscle with his dull fingers, he can feel the softness of Douma’s skin. How he presses his side into Enmu’s palm. Like he trusts what those hands can do. Like he wants him to touch him. He knows how much he adores the attention, how it makes him feel connected with something other than his emotional numbness, it’s just so uncanny.

 

How can Douma trust someone so much? Does he not understand Enmu’s purposes here? Does he not know his ulterior motives.

 

Does he want to be used?

 

Does he want to be replaced?

 

His hand grips Douma unconsciously tight. Digging his fingers in to feel a sigh brush over the side of his head. It doesn’t have a satisfaction to it, a mere breath slipping from Douma’s lips.

 

“I’d eat you if I had the opportunity,” A soft, sugary hum. Like the entire premise of the statement means more of a gentle embrace than cannibalism between two demons of two different ranks and stories. His hand loosens its grip, travels up to Douma’s chest, right under his right pec to feel the tone and ribs there. He’s pawing at the uppermoon without mercy. He should know better. “Would you like that, dear upper two?”

 

Douma chuckles, “I do like the way you think!” His laughter is a tune that fills the air. Fills his heart with the air and steals his breath.

 

Enmu feels flattered again. That tingle in his foul organs and the thumping in his chest, that shouldn’t be amongst them. Douma thinks his way of thinking is something to be liked. It isn’t. But he’ll take the wisdom of a cult leader’s words over his own self-decrepitude.

 

He tries to shut down the feeling but he’s so hungry, and so starved of this sensation, he can’t help his pride. He can’t swallow it when Douma feeds it so expertly. Like it’s his hobby. Helping a weak lower ranked demon, with no hopes and dreams, with no trust, and an uppermoon is trying so desperately to help him see what can be best. What isn’t so wrong.

 

All of this is so wrong. So what is Douma trying to make him see?

 

He’s only ever seen Douma’s desires, his memories and what not. The past faith. Nothing more. Nothing further.

 

He doesn’t deserve to see any deeper. He’s already looked inside Douma, in and out. His eyes should be plucked out and served to him on a pretty platter before he’s ever allowed to trample over his superior’s soul.

 

That doesn’t mean his attempts have gone shallow. His soul is a fragile place. It’s as fragile as Enmu’s mood after so long of this behavior, it’s gone so numb that the cold could freeze off someone’s fingers. Not Douma’s. Douma knows this. He isn’t stupid. Not like Enmu thinks. Not like many nowadays believe. His soft acts and childish personas.

 

He’s just trying to escape it. The emotional need to be emotional. The emotional disturbance to strike a feeling into his mind. One where he doesn’t cry at others situations. One where he doesn’t try to make someone who clearly doesn’t love him cling.

 

“Stay a while, won’t you?” These odd requests make Enmu feel a lot more inferior than they should. He wants to be around Douma, certain bits and pieces love being able to have his company and occupy his silence. But he doesn’t. Because he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be anywhere near such expert worth, there isn’t a purpose for him except to use that to become more powerful. Higher in the Kizuki. Not higher on Douma’s charm.

 

Still, the dream demon chews on his words, “Whatever you’d like, my dear.”

 

He watches from his peripheral vision. It’s not so blurry and confusing anymore. He watches as Douma’s hand reaches out on the opposite side to brush over the gardenias. Fingertips dancing over the petals in a way that makes Enmu’s lower body flood with an ache he’s never been so certain of until now. The pale white of the gardenias matches the uppermoon’s skin. The dream demon salivates, his own hand digs harder into the ribs under it.

 

He slurps up his saliva the moment it drips from his lip, he has to gain some more awareness if he wants to keep this up. If he wants to continue his advances in growing more powerful.

 

That’s all he needs.

 

He doesn’t need Douma. Not the way Douma wants him to need him.

 

He can’t bite off more than he can chew. Not yet.

 

His stomach twitches and his fangs begin to ache. A pink dusts his marked, sickly cheeks. It feels so much worse than the impeccable inferiority of Douma’s influence. The hand grazing the petals retracts to pet Enmu absentmindedly. Like a grimy little pet. It’s not far from the truth. He feels their bodies moving again, it feels perfect, like the death dance they always have. Too perfect. . .

 

He stumbles. The uppermoon is forced to steady him on his feet. How Enmu could be so weak for one man is just baffling. He feels ashamed, almost. If Douma wasn’t so beautiful he’d be upset at himself. But no, it’s a much different feeling. It’s gross.

 

How Douma must feel splits his mood completely. He wants to be bitter, yet the ache hidden between his legs and by his coat keeps him from doing so.

 

He huddles closer to his side. Walking with him slowly. Elegantly. How Douma moves so carefree and fluidly makes Enmu’s posture look weak. Everything about him look weak. He’s not weak, he can have the upperrank wrapped around his fingers without any struggle—

 

“Lord Founder, you’ve brought a visitor?” The cultist’s voice of masked disgust makes Enmu snarl. His thoughts blur, replaced with the very quick: “who do you think you are? I am far better than you are in every way—I’ll ruin you—“ Douma’s arm wrapping tighter around him quietens the thought. He’s too soft. Too pretty. Too warm and big.

 

Enmu physically remains quiet too. Shushing his nasty larynx and horrifying whispers.

 

“Ah, yes. Why not prepare some tea for us? Hm?” The follower is whisked away in its idiocy and obsession. Having a request from a lord like this must feel good. Enmu would know.

 

His eyes peek up at the uppermoon to see him staring right back at the dream demon. He feels even more upset and even more aroused at those swirling pastel colors, the pigments so bright and so stained. So saturated that Enmu gets a humane headache at the sight. So beautiful, too beautiful. The switch of his feelings makes his stomach hurt as well. Like a common cold. Demons don’t get colds. And especially the damn Kizuki mark in both of Douma’s eyes. Pupils replaced by a hideous rank. He wants it.

 

His mood changes like the seasons outside. So different. So mystical.

 

A jaw straining sight.

 

His mouth hurts. And still twists into his facades’ grin.

 

“My, you’re spoiling me tonight.” His whisper is dragged out. Croaked in a form that makes him feel something akin to embarrassment. He doesn’t know. His emotions are only so limited. Only so strong.

 

And oh, oh so jumbled.

 

So broken.

 

He can faintly hearing Douma’s inhale before he speaks. The clattering and rustling of the followers going about their personal business in the temple, the maids cleaning and dusting, the servants flocking to Lord Founder only to be shooed away as he walks through his palace with a lower rank in tow.

 

But the humans don’t know about this. Just that they’re otherworldly beings.

 

And Enmu is one of the uglier ones, obviously.

 

They think he’s ugly, so ugly he’s frightening, Douma coos over his looks and says he’s an adorably kind of “messed up” looking. The followers don’t matter to him. Meals, really. Feasts for when him and the uppermoon have dinner dates.

 

He’s brought to a bigger room than the main entrance. He can never keep track of this temple, it’s massive and dignified. It’s a place of eternal paradise. But Enmu feels more weight on his chest when he sits down next to Douma’s signature cushion. Calves tucked under his thighs. It’s a demeaning gesture, however Enmu has been used to losing his dignity for most of his immortal life.

 

“You enjoy tea, yes? Am I mistaken?” Douma’s chin is leaned into the palm of his hand. Propped up on his elbow. The dream demon’s eyes can’t seem to catch a break of him. Taking eyefuls, and eyefuls, and eyefuls.

 

He nods his head of both dark and colorful hair. “. . . Yes, you’re right.” The fact Douma remembers these silly details about Enmu makes Enmu feel good. Too good. It’s intoxicating.

 

His eyes flicker down to his lips again. He hardly realizes it before he’s breathing shakily. It’s quiet under Douma’s humming, the silly tune that haunts him and his senses every day.

 

“I don’t see how you can like it, it’s not like blood. Certainly not like sake.” He shrugs his shoulders. The uppermoon doesn’t seem to care, nor does he exactly notice Enmu’s state right now. He’s just so focused on other things. Stupid things. The dream demon feels selfish, and so, so hungry. His skin feels wretched over his muscular structure just waiting for Douma to take a bite. And then he can take his turn. It’s fair.

 

Yet what is fairness under a demon who takes what it wants. Not what it cares for. If Douma cares, he’d be giving himself up to Enmu. Handing over his rank.

 

“Sake is a waste of money.” He huffs.

 

Enmu tries to shake the thoughts away. To shove them out of his sick mind. Yet it’s rather difficult with the source of these desires sitting pretty right before him. He doesn’t want to think of Douma that way. He doesn’t want Douma. He wants his power, right? He just wants to finish his mission and gain more power, right?

 

There’s nothing more to it, yes?

 

Yes.

 

The shoji slides open and Enmu almost gasps at the noise. He bites his tongue, his teeth pierce the plush redness and he bleeds. The taste is disgusting. He swallows it down before Douma can notice. Yet the uppermoon is observant. Too observant. He’s just lucky he doesn’t say anything as the tea is handed to the two, on one platter, the western-looking kettle clearly still warm save for the handle.

 

Its porcelain and the design stained into it makes Enmu think of Douma’s white skin against his own. Silken, smooth with those flowers draped over every beautiful curve. Horribly perfect. He hates it. He knows no envy for it, he simply detests the thought of it any longer.

 

‘Lord Founder’ as they have labeled Douma, doesn’t bow to the servant in return. Not so unsightly, that is. He nods his head and that’s enough approval for the woman with her twitching thighs and fluttering heart to shuffle away and close the door once again. She must have thought she’d get to see what the dream demon is about to do to her master. She must have thought stupidly enough that he’d let her dream such a generous idea. He looks back to the tea she’s poured.

 

“You can have it, you know,” His voice is practically a sweet nothing now. It’s endearing and disgustingly so. So calm and gentle. Like he’s chiding. The impression makes Enmu gulp down his excess salivation, the hand gesturing slowly towards him, he takes a cup.

 

It’s herbal tea. Something relaxing and refreshing. He can distinctly taste the raspberry notes and the floral notes overpowering the sweet jam flavor. He actually finds it quite pleasant. He sips it, tenses his jaw so he doesn’t puke it up right away, and swallows it down.

 

He sets the cup in his lap. It’s warm.

 

He tries to not shiver when the warmth hits his crotch through the layers of his clothes. “Perhaps you’d enjoy this, my lord. It’s floral.” His calm and cold front is affected. Douma takes suspicion, but doesn’t mention it directly.

 

“I’m surprised you can manage to drink it,” Douma plays with a piece of his own golden hair. Fiddling with it. “I would throw it all up.”

 

“Oh, and it’d probably hurt . . .”

 

“My tummy is full, after all.” He laughs.

 

Enmu can’t not find his slight, feigned immaturity charming. Even in the state he’s in now. He smirks lowly.

 

“You poor thing.” Another sip. The wave of nausea hits him, he holds it. Keeps choking down the tea without any sounds of struggle distinguished. Until his cup is empty. How he manages to down the tea makes Douma’s cheeks blush. An actual physical reaction. Something emotions can’t explain. But it’s like admiration.

 

He wonders what else feels like admiration, it rushes throughout his entire body and has his mind turning back to how much he truly does like Enmu and his horrendous presence here in this one of a kind palace.

 

He wants him.

 

And not just his hunger that’s so clearly radiating from his slenderer body.

 

The cup is set down politely beside the fuller one.

 

“Not even going to give it a try?” Enmu inquires, voice admittedly softer than it usually is. He’s not one to be a nuisance. He’s just wondering. Is Douma’s ‘tummy’ really that full?

 

“Noo. I couldn’t, it’s for you!” His cheerful smile. It’s sickening.

 

“You know I don’t mind sharing.”

 

A laugh. A genuine chortle of a laugh, one that makes Douma’s snort and his mouth open wide enough that Enmu can peer down his throat. He must have never learned how to mimic one correctly.

 

“That may be the funniest lie I’ve ever heard.” He grins.

 

Enmu raises a slim brow, encouragement.

 

“Now, now, Enmu. My darling, you know damn well you don’t share.”

 

“You don’t share your meals, not unless it’s with a higher power.”

 

“You don’t share your dreams.”

 

“You don’t even share your life.”

 

“With me,” His hand raises to rest on the center of his chest. Smooth over the valley of his pectorals where his fingers tap. The purple claws more apparent and more delightful of a detail when they travel over his upper half. Drawing Enmu’s eyes, the urge to loosen the tension is making him itchy.

 

“With you?” He parrots.

 

“Yes, dear lord.” He mocks Enmu’s endearment. Enmu can’t feel offended. Only want and hate at the same time.

 

Enmu’s gaze droops some more.

 

Lowers.

 

Shamelessly.

 

“You won’t let me in. I don’t know why I chase after you, so stubborn.” He leans back into his cushion. And beckons the dream demon closer with his eyes. His mouth. Obediently, Enmu gets out of his kneeling position to let Douma have him in proximity.

 

Hands coming up to hold him make him tense.

 

“Enmu, don’t you want me, too?” His words feel hollow. Enmu’s face twists into a grimace. Douma’s softens.

 

“Can’t you have me? In the way you’d like?”

 

“No.” Enmu snaps out. Douma shudders. He doesn’t back away, no. He shudders like the one word affected him greatly.

 

“I can’t have you. You can’t have me. It’s logic, something you don’t have.” Yet he doesn’t move the hands off of his slim waist and traveling up his back. Under his arms. Making his own hands be forced to brace themselves on Douma’s strong shoulders.

 

Enmu grips him tightly. Too tightly. The bone of the uppermoon’s clavicle breaks, he isn’t phased. He just heals it under his skin and that makes the grimace worsen.

 

“I don’t.” He agrees.

 

“I don’t feel anything. But I feel I need you.”

 

“Do you need me?” He drags Enmu closer. Getting him to lean down to his level. Practically sitting on him now.

 

And it makes Enmu angry. If that’s what he’s calling anger. It’s burning in his chest and stinging in his lower stomach. A haze covers his vision, all he sees is Douma now. He sneaks his hands around the uppermoon’s neck. Pressing directly into his throat. The definition of his Adam’s apple under his fingers.

 

“I do. I need your salvation, your support, I’m pathetic.” It’s barely a confession.

 

Douma shushes him.

 

“No, no. That’s not what I’m asking for.”

 

His hands go to unbutton Enmu’s tailcoat. Before he can even reach the lapels, the dream demon smacks him away.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?!” A snarl.

 

Douma’s face remains calm and gentle. His body still gains a tremble from Enmu’s grip, he still drags him closer.

 

“I’m helping you. That’s what you need, you said.” Enmu’s eyes burn in their sockets.

 

“I don’t deserve it.”

 

The uppermoon brings him into a kiss suddenly, a little: “You do, let me show you . . .” Their lips touching sweetly. It’s a pressure that forces Enmu to relax. He doesn’t close his eyes, just watching Douma tilt his head to smack their mouths together over and over and over again.

 

He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

 

He just needs to feed.

 

Their tongues brush over each other. Getting the lightest taste of Douma makes Enmu’s thread of patience break without a trace of doubt left.

 

He breaks off of the kiss, his hands slipping to peel back the collar of Douma’s sweater so he can bare his neck. The fabric peels itself away and he goes in for a bite. The uppermoon strokes his back with more patience than he’s ever had. He sinks his teeth in roughly. Puncturing the skin and veins, to get to the blood. The moan that comes from Douma silences the entire temple. It’s quiet. His mind isn’t rushing.

 

He feels fingers lacing in his dark hair to guide his movements, leading his bites to heartier spots of the throat. He takes in gulps of the divinity. Laps at the wounds. The edges of lifted skin when he pulls out his fangs. Then, he rips out a chunk. A thick chunk that gurgles Douma’s sweetness with no mercy. He spreads his legs invitingly. The lowermoon squirms between the two long limbs wrapped in loose fabric. Finally getting some form of real friction on his still-hard cock in his dress pants.

 

“That’s it, that’s it.” His approval makes Enmu even more upset. And even more happy to eat from him.

 

His teeth sink into his skin repeatedly. Continuously, without stopping once. Into the meat he’s torn up, he sucks and slurps noisily, showcasing a true greed. Breathing through his nose to make up lost time. He pulls his head away to look over his progress. Then hisses aggressively, in anger at how Douma heals. Major arteries reforming quickly, a quickness that hurts to see more than it likely hurts the uppermoon.

 

Physical pain is not a dream. Physical pain is not an emotion. It’s something to feel. But not in the mind. Not unless Enmu works extra hard. He can do that, easily.

 

“Don’t heal. If you heal, I’ll stop.” He lets Enmu manhandle him onto the floor, lets him command and demand all these hideous things from him. Their bodies making a harsh thump as he gets back between his legs. He’s glad to feel Douma reciprocate. Wrapping them around his waist and pressing him up against his crotch. His tailcoat is still halfway undone, the uppermoon tried desperately to keep going with it.

 

“Why don’t we let all this blood spill, huh?” He rolls his hips into Douma’s to hear him groan aloud.

 

“Yes, yes—whatever you want, my love -“

 

“Generous as ever. So stupid, I’m not your love.” Though his cock twitches against Douma’s thigh as he shrugs his coat off of his shoulders, tossing it back on the stage-like structure where the stained cushion throne is rumpled. The straining at his groin more apparent without it.

 

“I was just making a statement.” Douma attempts, abrupt pressure on his wrists keeps him from it. He gasps a shrill gasp when tendrils suddenly pull and push him, expanding from spare flesh and binding him. Enmu still between his thighs, now beginning to play with the belt holding up his hakama pants.

 

“You were mocking me.”

 

“I don’t take well to mockery, my sweet.”

 

Enmu’s hands pull down the pants unceremoniously. Seeing the definition beneath Douma’s fundoshi, a short cloth concealing him away from his own gaze and starvation. Yet before he touches him, he moves the sweater up and over his chest.

 

Douma’s body is beautiful, of course. Like it’s been sculpted by a god with a heavy crown. He wants to ruin it for those pathetic beings in the sky. So they can’t hurt such a beauty anymore. Only he can, now.

 

He doesn’t feel envy. Only hunger. Without the attention, Douma tries to grind his hips into Enmu’s. At least brush his ass over his dick. It doesn’t work. Another tendril presses him down harder into the wooden floor. Making him hump the air and the cloth over his hips. It doesn’t work. It’s not what he wants.

 

A hand grabs ahold of his left pec, gentle at first, reverently. “Dear Lord . . .” Enmu draws his attention. Blue eyes staring deep into the rainbows of his own.

 

“How perfect you are.” The compliment isn’t so half-assed anymore. Enmu gasps at the feeling of the skin under his palm. His thumb writes lazy circle in his breastbone, his fingers travel over the span of his wide chest hungrily.

 

“It makes me sick.” He crunches a bone he can’t even recognize. It makes something bleed inside him, he moans again.

 

There’s not a trace of imperfection on his skin though. No blemishes, no scars, no nothing. Just skin pale like milk.

 

The flesh dimple beneath his fingertips for a moment as he examines Douma’s upper half.

 

“These are like tits, do you know that?”

 

“You’re lucky I don’t hate this one thing about you.” He hisses it.

 

“You like them?”

 

“I do.” He pinches a nipple between his ring and middle finger.

 

“I’ll rip them off next, would you like that?” Douma arches into the light stimulation he gets from him rolling the bud under his digits. The curve of his spine is as alluring as the dream demon’s is.

 

His words turn syrupy. The inference of them makes Douma squirm and struggle.

 

“You will be mine. You’ll depend on me, my presence alone.”

 

“You’ll be all alone without me.”

 

“This palace will burn down, your pride and whatever joy you have, I will become it.”

 

“I will take it. And you’ll be more than willing to give it up, mm?”

 

It messes with Douma’s subconscious.

 

He twists the peak of his pectoral, pinching and pulling till it hurts. Leaving a bruise over the areola. Then moves to the other, he doesn’t give as much attention to this one as he did the other. Just prodding at it and making Douma’s muscles twitch.

 

“Ah, ah, don’t get drowsy on me,” Enmu tuts when he catches sight of the uppermoon’s eyes falling shut in bliss and in the sudden sleepiness that the haze and illusion causes.

 

“What do you see, darling?”

 

“You—“ The answer is broken off with an equally broken moan when Enmu finally places a hand under the dampened underwear. He brushes the fabric away, and wraps his fingers around the meaty shaft. Tracing over a vein there. The inward curve of his entire cock.

 

“It’s working then.” Douma’s confusion speaks wonders for Enmu. Well, hypnosis has always gotten him what he’s wanted.

 

“You’ve fallen under my spell, so easily,” He all but purrs into Douma’s weakening senses. He tilts his head back and breathes hard. Exposing his freshly, newly healed neck. The dream demon hates it so much.

 

He squeezes him to feel the slick of precum form at his slit, he smears it with his thumb, Douma’s squeak of pleasure is music. Music that feels like nails on a chalkboard while he strangles the gorgeous erection in his grip.

 

“I hate how you give in.”

 

“I hate how you look at me that way. Innocent and loving, when you aren’t.”

 

“As if you hope I’d ever love you.” His tendrils wrestle Douma’s pants down his legs, needingly. To where Enmu can drag his other hand away from that chest and to beneath him. The uppermoon lifts his hips willingly. Too willing that he can’t help smacking his ass when he reaches it. Earning an admittedly cute whine. Arms move to grab him, he actually lets them with the control of his binding tentacles. Just so Douma can be lifted closer to his own body. And his hands can have more roam.

 

“I do- I do!” He moans out as Enmu’s fist pumps his hard dick. Rough and fast. The other hand suddenly spreading his ass cheeks away from the other makes his eyes widen.

 

“Oh! Oh my—“

 

“Would you want it lubricated?” Enmu asks him surprisingly gently for his previous degradation. He’s not a complete monster. His fist stops to grip firm at the tip, still slick with precum. He can feel Douma nod his head against him.

 

“You’re lucky I need something to work with,” He spits onto his fingers. A mix of blood had clumped with it. A disgusting mixture against Douma’s puckered hole, rubbed in softly. “Wretched.” A hoarse mutter as his wet fingers sink in. His own erection neglected in his striped pants. He has half the mind to think about how it’d feel if he replaced his digits with it instead.

 

“Wretched beauty, are you?” He rolls his eyes. This is all an annoyance. It would be a burden had it not been for how hungry he’s grown. He leans down to press his lips under the uppermoon’s ribcage. The bone ribbons under the skin feel glorious, he kisses absently where they flare when Douma sucks in a hard breath. The digits are pulled out, then almost cruelly snapped back in. Hitting his prostate that makes cum stream from his slit, his cock twitching and his eyes flooding with tears.

 

“Goodness me. Can you not control yourself? They’ve only been inside you for a minute.”

 

“You’ve been without this, it’s why you’re tight.” Despite the semen now splashed onto one side of his own head and all over Douma’s stomach, he digs his fingertips into the inner walls he shouldn’t be anywhere near.

 

“From now on, my dear, you will not come to orgasm.”

 

“You can handle it, no?” The moans grow in volume.

 

He fucks Douma’s hole down to the knuckles now. Two fingers spreading him, not fully, but enough to feel a sting. A sting that makes sinking his fangs into the skin beneath his face all the more worth it. Seeing the uppermoon writhe is something he’s been blessed with so many times. This somehow feels different, more infatuating. Infectious.

 

He suddenly claws at his insides.

 

Blood pours out, it relieves a pressure in his gut when Douma screams like a dying puppy.

 

He pulls his fingers free from the clenching grip. Looking to see his poor lord crying those unfeeling tears that display a deep emotion that the ignorant upper rank likely can’t decide. As much pity fuels him, he just stares at him before letting his teeth retract. He moves to cradle Douma’s face in his bloody hand.

 

“Don’t be like that, dear.” He lets his tongue lick at a stray tear. Trying to bring him back. Turns out pain can prove too much. Yet Enmu won’t stop, no. He’s not done.

 

“Your memories are plaguing our pleasure.” He kisses his left eye.

 

“Don’t think of the assault, think of me. Let me replace that scum.”

 

“Let me worship you in the most awful, wicked ways,” He smears the blood and the torn muscle under his nails over Douma’s lip. He’s happy to see him brighten up and lick the digit slowly. He takes it away, and goes to unbutton his pants.

 

The uppermoon’s eyes are too fuzzy to fixate on how his cock springs free from its confines. He blinks away excess tears. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling right now. He wants more of it, and not to lose any of it. He needs more. He needs to let Enmu have him.

 

The tendrils tighten and the purply flesh gurgles when he wraps a hand around himself, a few languid strokes, slow drags like that of a burning cigarettes’. to get started. He watches as Douma squirms. The power he feels is unmatched, so delightful he feels himself harden even more in his own tunneling fist.

 

He throbs harder than he ever has this evening. The coldness and smoothness of an uppermoon’s divinity and rarity in physical form is too lovely to pass on.

 

Demeaning, though pleasureful.

 

The dream demon sits back suddenly.

 

Weakly, Douma tries to follow. The tendrils loosen their grip.

 

“Crawl.” It’s a random request. The uppermoon obliges in the sweetest way he can, the fakest sweetness. Still bleeding, he gets on his hands and knees and crawls like an animal. It makes his body sore. But he knows what he’ll be getting when he positions himself in Enmu’s lap. Draping his longer legs over his securely, tendrils hanging on to stroke his skin like a benevolent massage. His hole, drenched in crimson and still leaking, presses over Enmu’s erection.

 

His fingers help him onto it, gently lowering him down. No longer as rough as he was previously in digging his digits inside. But his words don’t change. Still taking his own self-loath out on the poor thing whimpering and whining while he’s filled up.

 

His spine gives a pretty arch again.

 

A lowermoon shouldn’t feel the need to rip out his superior’s bones. He’s already broken a few earlier, he’ll give Douma a break.

 

“Look at that,” He leans back. Nearly careful while he watches the body above his. Then down to where they’re connected. The semen has now dried on Douma’s toned belly, his blood spills out and drains in a cute little puddle on Enmu’s thighs. “Mn—there we are, a true spectacle- ah!” He moans when he clenches.

 

“One so hideous! So horrid!”

 

“You must love me so much more now, mm?!” He lunges again. Douma still rides him; even angling his hips a certain direction  to feel it deeper. Stimulating his own prostate greedily. If it can be called that.

 

Enmu thrusts in time with the shifting of the uppermoon’s hips.

 

“Yes! I do-“ He quiets Douma’s mouth with one of the thicker tendrils formed from his back. It gags him, then triggers the gag reflex, with the cock still inside him; a bit of puke and a lot of drool spills from his lips. Not too bad for any concern to be found, he’ll be fine.

 

“I don’t deserve your love,” He rocks his hips. In and out.

 

“I can’t accept it.”

 

The muffled noises of pain and bliss and distress coming from Douma make the limits exceed. He lifts him up, and increases the pace to a ruthless extent. As ruthless as a demon can be. It’s sloppy. It’s disgusting and so, so loud. It’s messy and atrocious, the bile has spilt onto his own pale chest and brittler bones. He surprisingly doesn’t mind it. How red it is. Not normal vomit.

 

He can feel the clench and it makes him gag too. This all is so sickening.

 

Deeply twisted to the point Enmu bites into him again. It stuns him the tolerance Douma has grown, he doesn’t cum when Enmu does.

 

He just cries his pitying tears with the meat still down his throat.

 

“What have you become.” He swipes a bit of the puke off the skin, and plays with the sticky red as Douma shakes and shivers while he spills inside his broken body. Riding out his orgasm at a slower, more efficient pace to make sure not a drop is wasted.

 

“It baffles me to see you this way, my lord.” He speaks into the flesh of his stomach. Lapping at the blood from two punctures, not going anywhere near the leftover cum splattered there.

 

Enmu’s teeth sink in again. This time a space between a rib or two, he bites till he feels warmth flood his mouth. He doesn’t pull out either. His cock already hardening again at how Douma’s orgasm had been placed in his hands. He’ll make it worth achieving. “You look so pretty.” He compliments, a sharp contrast to his bitter loath and degradation earlier.

 

“So pretty, I’d like to see what lies inside. That’s what matters. Doesn’t it?”

 

“Can I harvest your divinity, lover?” He mimics.

 

By now, the uppermoon’s tip lay red from neglect, he’s never felt such a pressure built in his crotch before. From a lowermoon no less. It should rightfully baffle Enmu. It should shock him. Douma loves to see it. He nods, his tongue finding a place and cushioning around the tendril like it were another dick in his mouth.

 

Blood continues to pour out around them.

 

His mouth tears into his lord’s side suddenly, jaws ripping up layers of muscle and thin fat. Douma’s scream and groan is cut off by the tendril making his eyes roll back. Enmu grins into the gore, a hand traveling to grab ahold of his superior’s erection, jerking him off finally.

 

“Cum for me, cum into your opened abdomen!” He laughs crudely. He’s enjoying every bit of this.

 

Sadistically and pridefully, he gets the stomach cavity open wide. He can feel the life almost draining from Douma’s body atop of his. He claws at the organs with greed in his intentions. Spraying more than enough crimson to fill his stomach and fill his power. But he doesn’t take any more of it, it’s drained and it will rejoice when he is done. The guts are a rotten pink and glisten in the light. Enmu almost blushes at how pretty the sight is.

 

Manipulating the body has become so dreadfully easy, he could become the new upper rank two if he wanted. But he wants Douma more than that now. In death and in immortality.

 

He rips out the liver first, pulling at it to discard the roughness of how Douma’s body wants to heal so badly. Then, he grabs the stomach. The acid pours when he tears it. Demon guts and internal systems don’t change much, but they still burn.

 

He starts to thrust again when his digits glide over the folds of his intestines, fingering through them like he would a cunt. The uppermoon writhes in pain at the poking and prodding. Literally. The intestines being pulled out, unraveled, how the hell is his dick still up? He cums. He cums hard. Reaching orgasm and shooting a heady mixture of rotten blood and semen and maybe urine as well. The smell is foul. The taste is as he said, divine.

 

He brings one part of the small intestine to his mouth to bite the side of it and chew it like tobacco, all while he gets all the others out of the way so he can see his own cock’s impression in the wrecked form of a once so powerful and so blindly gorgeous creature.

 

“You taste like melted sugar candy,” He coos with his mouth full. “Tea cake left out for too long.”

 

“Like mold.”

 

“It’s such a delight, isn’t it?” He asks as if Douma can respond as he usually does. Charming and carefree. Sweet.

 

“You want to speak?”

 

“I’ll tear out your faux larynx,” He whispers into the void of Douma’s abdomen. “Your screams and cries are my greatest weakness, my sweet.”

 

“In spite of how fake they are.”

 

He giggles that crazed giggle Douma calls cute.

 

He wonders if the illusion of care and proper sex is treating his spirit well, he wonders if he’ll feel anything after he’s done with him. After all that he’s done with, to him.

 

“You’re so godly when you sob this way.”

 

“Do you believe me? Do you want me to trust you?” The nod is heartbreaking. It doesn’t phase Enmu.

 

“You’re worthless to believe I could.”

 

His eyes turn down again. He slurps up some of the blood left over in the gore, quiet noises of suckling and siphoning. Douma is very obviously completely spent. Covered in his own class consciousness. Senses drenched with a dream-like state Enmu’s fucked him into a nightmare. He’s not one to complain though.

 

He pulls his head up. Dick twitching when he feels the grip no longer encasing him. He’s  ruined him, his superior. In entirety.

 

His lips touch the slowly thumping heart. It throbs and pumps blood to no where. Enmu’s stomach no longer growls or stings. His balls tighten where they’re pressed to Douma’s ass, driving his body to give him a few more long strokes. To bring himself to orgasm. He doesn’t even bother to make it feel good anymore. Just leaves it.

 

He smiles.

 

“You did good,” He reaches for the full tea cup Douma never drank. Pulling out. Why is he praising one so much better than he is, he takes a sip of the now cold liquid. Politely. When his fingers are stained in blood and smidges of meat.

 

“Heal yourself, look alive.” The dream demon scolds. The uppermoon squirms, the tendril removed from his jaws. The other few loosening reluctantly in response to their manipulator’s calls. Douma manages to get his eyes to focus. To see Enmu smile at him, purely. He absorbs as much of the blood that’s spilled onto the wooden floor as he can. Then works to heal his broken bones, and then regenerate his vital organs.

 

There’s blood all over him, he can’t absorb all of it. Not when he’s so weak.

 

Scoffing, Enmu sets his cup down and gets up close again. Looming over his superior.

 

“You’ll be fine.” He says between licks. Licking up the ribbons of fluids sprayed about Douma’s body, his chest and thighs. Given the stomach part had been reformed. He laps them all up. Swallows them with a hearty gulp.

 

Even being benevolent enough to press a kiss to his lips.

 

The uppermoon’s cheeks never once lost their blush, he licks there too. Tasting the stray tears.

 

Snapping out of the hypnosis, Douma sits up in a stupid daze.

 

“You just brutalized me!” He glances at Enmu. The voice he puts on is pitchy and hoarse from screams and gasps. The lowermoon shushes him with the edge of the tea cup. Douma spits playfully, crawling into Enmu’s lap and clutching onto him.

 

“I forgive you though.” He kisses his cheek.

 

“You better. You asked for it.”

 

“Don’t leave me now, please? Since I’m awake?”

 

Enmu hesitates.

 

He always hesitates.

 

“Fine.”

 

The Mugen train has been abandoned, derailed without its captor.

 

❣︎

Notes:

Thank you for reading!! My fingers are cramped up. I now need to rest. I’ll be back another time soon enough, friends.